the rhythm of life
by Someone aka Me
Summary: Hermes the owl doesn't know what it means that the war is over, but he's glad for it all the same, because it means that he-who-owns-him makes the human-happy-face more. :: Perciver, Hermes POV, second person.


**QLFC** : CHASER 2: Write from a pet's perspective about their everyday life. Optional Prompts: (phrase) under the stairs; (object) stick; (restriction) no names

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You love the sensation of summer night air whistling through your wings. It's humid tonight, the thickness of the moisture in the air giving you more lift with every stroke of your wings but also cutting down your ability to glide. You push yourself up, up, up and find a merciful air current.

You spread your wings to their full width and let the current carry you along. The early night is clear and cloudless, making it easy to navigate your way towards he-that-owns-you. You carry with you a letter from the one-who-gave-him-life, and these letters always make his face do the human-happy-face, which pleases you.

It was not long ago, you know, that there were no letters to or from the one-who-gave-him-life. And he-that-owns-you did not make the human-happy-face, not for a long time. Those were the years when the sky was full of darkness and mist and the smell of death, and even you with your sharp eyes could not see the ground from the sky, and all of the humans were sad and slow. He-that-owns-you did not send many letters during this time. Instead, he sat at his desk when he was home, and made human-sad-face all the time. He did not give you treats or speak with you like he used to when you both lived at the Stone Place where he went to learn.

It made you miss the Stone Place. You missed the human-who-flies-without-wings. He used to come to visit you up in your tower. He would come with he-that-owns-you, and he would bring sweet treats. And he-that-owns-you would look at the human-who-flies and he would make the human-happy-face all the time.

In the years after, you did not see the human-who-flies. When the air was dark and full of death, you did not see him, and you did not bring him letters, and you did not understand why this hardship had to come.

But now the air is humid but the light is back and the fog is gone, and he-that-owns-you sends letters to the one-who-gave-him-life again.

And best of all, human-who-flies is back, and he now lives with you and he-that-owns-you in the little nest-building.

You glide down to the nest-building and find your window, propped open with your stick. It was a stick you brought home, and he-that-owns-you did not understand why until you used your beak to poke the stick at the window. Now, when the air is clear and not so hot, he-that-owns-you will leave the window propped open for you. It makes you feel welcome in the nest-building. It makes you feel at home.

You soar in through the window and glide into the centre of the nest-building.

You find he-that-owns-you and he-who-flies curled up together on the daytime-nest-place where they often sit to do things that are comfortable. They are intertwined, the way you have seen pairs in the tower in the Stone Place. If they were owls, you think they would be helping to clear the bugs off of each other. But they are not owls. They are humans, and they are curled together, and they are speaking with soft voices and making human-happy-faces.

And you are glad.

You have missed this. You have missed seeing he-that-owns-you at peace like this. You remember restless nights and twitching fingers. You remember all too well the way he-that-owns-you always looked like he was on a hunt, always alert, always sharp-eyed, but never successful, never allowing himself the relaxation of a good kill.

You tried to groom his hair of any bugs to help, but he only swatted you away, making a human-angry-face.

You do not miss the tension contained within every line of his frame.

You look at him now, and you see that there is no tension curled up under his skin. He-who-flies makes a sleepy sound, and leans forward, pressing his lips against the cheek of he-that-owns-you. He-that-owns-you makes the happiest human-happy-face that you have ever seen.

You are pleased.

You fly over to them and land on the back of the daytime-nest-place, churring at them both.

He-that-owns-you turns to you and makes a human-happy-face and some human noises that you don't understand, and then he reaches forward and unties the letter from the one-who-gave-him-life with gentle hands. You hoot at him gently, and he makes more human sounds back. He-who-flies hoots sleepily at you — a human hoot, that means nothing, but makes you feel warm and welcome anyway.

He-that-owns-you runs a gentle hand through your feathers — the one that is not tucked up underneath he-who-flies. You turn your head into his hand, letting him smooth your feathers into order. He does not groom you as well as the other owls, but he tries, and you appreciate him for it.

He makes a human-happy-face and then turns away to unfurl the letter from the one-who-gave-him-life.

You nip softly at the hand of he-who-flies, and he looks at you sleepily before making a human-happy-face and running his hand through your feathers, making grumbly, rumbly human noises. You churr at him, and he threads his fingers between your feathers, straightening them. You hoot happily.

When your feathers are mostly straightened, you hoot at him again and then spread your wings and leave them behind on the daytime-nest-place. You glide through the nest toward your own nest-place, in the nook under the stairs. It is where your post hangs, and where you feel comforted because the enclosed space reminds you of a nest carved out of a tree. Though raised with humans, you still have the memories of your ancestors, carried down through the years, and you still hunt like they hunted and rest like they rested. That he-that-owns-you understands this and lets you make your home in the place under the stairs pleases you.

You curl your talons around your post and lean your head down, using your beak to poke at your preening glands, prompting them to produce oil. You spread the oil with your beak, making sure each feather is covered and remains sleek and soft. As you do this, you hear the sounds of he-that-owns-you and he-who-flies getting up from the daytime-nest-place and moving around the nest, their movements slow and warm and sleepy. Eventually, the noises settle as your humans end up in the nighttime-nest-place, where you know they will curl themselves together and breathe slow and even until their breathing steadies into sleep. You, meanwhile, plan to finish your preening and then go out and hunt, because you are hungry. You will return in the morning, when your humans are making the noises that mean that human-awake-time is starting, and you will come back to your post and tuck your head beneath your wing, and you will sleep.

This is the rhythm of your life now, after the death has faded from the air. It is a rhythm that is softness and warmth and happiness, and you are pleased.

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 **HSWW (C &A) challenges: **

Writing Month: 1157

Seasonal: Days of the Year: Newspaper Carrier Day: Write about an owl. / Summer Prompts: (weather) Humid / Shay's Musical Challenge: Be More Chill - write about someone falling out with their best friend, but making up in the end / Gryffindor Themed Prompts: Percy, Oliver

Character Appreciation: 5. Aminal: owl / Book Club: 1. Tink: (action) biting; (restriction) no dialogue; (word) nook / Showtime:13 Wait For It - (character) Percy Weasley / Count Your Buttons: Word 3: hungry / Lyric Alley:25. I don't have a dollar to my name / Ami's Audio Admirations: 2. Rocky Flintstone — Write about someone who goes by an alias. / Emy's Emporium: G2: Write about a perfect day (doesn't have to be the weather) / Lo's Lowdown: O2: Style: write a fic featuring a lot of physical description

Pinata: Percy Weasley

Funfair: North: Ghost Train: Compartment 15 - Word: Death; East: Hook a ship: humid; South: Wheel of Fortune (Southern): (action) cuddling

Hamilton Mania: Act 1, 9. Getting a job - (character) Percy Weasley; word: hardship

Canada Day: 8. word: sweet

Insane House: no character names


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